ORTUM
by Yohohoandabottleofcokezero
Summary: Carlton often wondered whether or not sleeping with Shawn Spencer was worth actually having to deal with him on a regular basis. He never reached a proper answer.


**AN:** This was written for challenge 3 of round 1 of tvnetwork1_las over on livejournal. The prompt was "Autumn". This story is also AU in the sense that Shawn and Juliet never got together and at some point in the recent past Shawn and Lassiter have hooked up, but it is sex rather than a relationship. Spoilers for 'Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing'.

**ORTUM**

The scene is brutal, bloodier than I'm used to but I have a strong constitution. Most of the officers are slightly green and Guster is about a second from passing out, but Spencer, damn him, looks as relaxed as usual. With those jeans, that shirt, his hair artfully styled and his feet in well-worn sneakers he might as well be walking along the beach, eating ice cream and chatting up women. I try not to notice the whisker burn peeking out from under his collar, a reminder of a time he doesn't look quite so unshakeable, and that it wouldn't necessarily just be women.

The victim - a slim, brunette, 20-something female - is face down on the carpet, wearing an expensive dress and heels. From the photos she'd probably looked quite attractive before her face had been smashed in. Three blood-soaked weapons have been dropped beside her and there are blood smears all over everything, well, the bits that escaped unscathed from the struggle. Although, hang on, was that a complete hand-print? Memories of one of those articles I read last year clicks into place and "We need to look at ORTUM."

"You think the murder was committed by a season?" Spencer says, that stupid shit-eating grin in its usual position of residence. If I wasn't half in love with him, well … just leave me in a room alone with him and a glock. Then again, these days he'd probably convince me to do something so kinky with it I'd get hard every time I walked past the shooting range. Oh God, he's still talking. "And you accuse me of having weird ideas. Dude, this totally takes the cake." He and Guster exchange one of those looks that says they've known each other since the age of five and have not grown up one whit ever since. "I could totally go for some cake. We can have victory cake when we prove that Lassie is wrong and find the real killer."

I try and give him my harshest glare but it's as ineffective as usual. "O-R-T-U-M, not Autumn. It stands for the Oxnard Red Talon Union of Muscle. It's a criminal organization in of hired thugs, that have occasionally travelled this far out and have been linked to a couple of killings, although of course nothing proved." It's not like the assholes in organised crime could actually _arrest_ groups like that, instead of mysteriously losing evidence and gaining condos. Drimmer and his deal with Chavez is the tip of the fucking iceberg. "Using the victim's hand and blood to form a hand-print is their signature, plus the excessive use of violence from multiple weapons and angles, it seems a likely explanation."

I know this sounds impressive, after all, I know what I'm talking about when it comes to my job, and all the officers look quite inspired, but Spencer has to ruin the moment by snorting. O'Hara does her best to ignore him. "What motive, do you think?" she asks, her pen and notebook ready.

"Well, she was a journalist, wasn't she? Maybe she found out information about the wrong people. We should send her hard-drive down to the computer lab and contact her work colleagues to find out what she was working on."

Spencer snorts again.

"What!" I snap, turning round to face him.

He puts his hands to his bloody head, closes his eyes and lets out one of those moans that sounds too close to the noises he makes in bed for me to be completely comfortable. Then his eyes snap open and he stares at me unflinchingly, too knowing not to set me even more on edge, especially with that smirk. He's not really psychic, dammit! "The spirits say that Lassie is on completely the wrong track, as usual. The victim was an intern. She was in charge of making the coffee and photocopying. If she had uncovered some big scandal she would have had to tell someone else at the paper and then she wouldn't be the only one dead."

I scowl at him. "Not if the person she told is the one who hired ORTUM, or in the pay of them." It's not like reporters are that much more principled than the organised crime lackeys.

He raises his eyebrows and looks at me pityingly. Stubborn bastard. "Well, I guess it's up to me and Gus to prove you wrong then. Come on Gus, we can pick up some hot dogs on the way." He and Guster make their way out of the room before I can kick them out, arguing about what kind of food they should go for (Spencer settles on Tacos, Guster wants jerk chicken).

I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who notices Spencer slip a piece of paper in my back-pocket and pinch my ass on the way out, but I check the room suspiciously anyway.

_Lassi-pants,_  
><em>Bet you I'll have the real killer by 8.35 pm tomorrow, possibly 8.37 if I have a lie-in. If not, I'll do that thing you like with my tongue. If I do, I get to handcuff you to the bed-posts and have my wicked way with you.<em>  
><em>H&amp;Ks<em>  
><em>Shawn<em>  
><em>P.S. You look super hot in that tie.<em>  
><em>P.P.S. I wouldn't mid tying you to the bed-posts with that instead.<em>  
><em>P.P.P.S. Can you TiVO America's Next Top Model for me? Gus is trying to pretend he doesn't watch it again.<em>

I put it back in my pocket, give the others one more suspicious look and then get started on the work. With my luck, he probably will be right and solve it, but goddammit I'm not giving up without a fight.


End file.
